


We're a Pair, You and I

by eirenical (chibi1723)



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Blackmail, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Possessive Behavior, Power Play, backstabbing, i love to hate you, one-upsmanship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/pseuds/eirenical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas bit his lip, forced back a whimper as she pulled away.  He needed… he needed… Jesus fucking Christ, he <i>needed</i>.  He tossed his head on the bench, fought not to turn pleading eyes on her.  She didn't need any more power over him than she had already.  She didn't need to know how badly he needed her, how badly he <i>wanted</i> her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're a Pair, You and I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zoicite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoicite/gifts).



> _"I've been itching for a dark dysfunctional almost-but-not-entirely relationshippy O'Brien/Thomas story with blackmail! and backstabbing! messed up and wrong sexual encounters! One-upmanship! cigarettes! some more blackmail!"_
> 
>  
> 
> Who could resist a prompt like that? O'Brien and Thomas' dysfunctional, yet somehow loving, codependency is one of my favorite parts of this show. Set during Season 1, sometime after Thomas' failed attempt to acquire a position with the Duke.

He didn't know when they had become this, when they had shifted from casual acquaintance, inane conversation, wary respect… to _this_ \-- longer glances, full of heat, knowing smirks, lingering touches, and the sinking feeling that he no longer had the upper hand… had, perhaps, _never_ had the upper-hand. He'd lost before he even realized he should be fighting. The worst thing about the situation, though, was that he wasn't entirely certain that he _wanted_ to fight it.

She'd been at the servants' table, this time, efficiently working on a piece of mending for her ladyship, when he'd come down the stairs. Daisy had been pressing napkins in the corner while Mrs. Patmore shrieked at her from the kitchen and William played the piano ever louder in an attempt to drown her out and spare Daisy the scolding, for once. It was cacophony… and it was a typical afternoon at Downton. He'd come downstairs with no purpose but to alleviate the boredom he felt when things were running this smoothly. He'd thought about ordering William to do something foolish, some make-work, just to see him scramble around. He'd thought about grabbing Daisy off the bench and whirling her around the kitchen while William was forced to watch the enraptured look on her face from afar. He'd thought about a lot of things and, in the end, had done none of them. One look from _her_ was all it took.

As Thomas stood in the doorway, eyeing and dismissing the various opportunities in the room and casually interjecting himself into the conversations around him, she'd looked up from her mending, caught the thread between her teeth and neatly snapped it in two. That was all it took. Those bared teeth, the wicked gleam in her eye… he was hers for the next hour if they could manage it.

He'd swept back out of the kitchen, tried not to let it seem as though fear hurried his footsteps. It wasn't fear, he told himself, but anticipation. Mrs. O'Brien was vicious, cruel, when she wished to be -- and she had been both to him often, held so many tidbits of scandal over his head by now that he'd nearly forgotten a few -- but she could also be kind, skilled… and exactly what he needed.

And it had been too long.

He'd reached their current rendezvous spot out of breath and in slight disarray. That would never do. She liked him tidy, liked him to play the dandy for her, liked him strong but vulnerable. It was like dancing on the edge of a knife to dance with her… but what an exquisite dance. No one kept him guessing as she did. No one kept up with him as she did. No one kept his interest like she did… and he needed her like he needed no one else.

By the time she reached their secluded corner of the grounds Thomas was sprawled on the bench, on leg bent at the knee, one hand supporting his weight, the other casually lifting a lit cigarette to his lips. She swept into the alcove, hands folded genteely in front, posture perfectly erect, face carefully neutral -- in perfect control, as usual. She stepped up next to the bench, stopped just shy of touching him, only the swirl of her skirts fanning out in front of her to brush against his leg. She stood there, silent… waiting. Wordlessly, he held up his cigarette, then tipped his head back to watch her lift it to her lips and take a drag from it.

He reached up a hand to take it back, but she lifted it out of reach, a small smirk playing at the corner of her lips. So it was to be a tease, today. He sighed melodramatically, let his hand loop around and lift upwards in an elegant shrug. Her smirk shifted to spread the fun to both corners of her lips at his effort at nonchalance. She didn't buy it, of that he was certain, but he didn't really buy her indifference, either. It was all an act, an elaborate courtship ritual designed to keep each other at arm's length, to stay unaffected. Sometimes Thomas even fooled himself into believing that it worked.

Mrs. O'Brien's skirts swirled around her as she turned and circled behind him to the other side of the bench, letting a casual hand rest on the back of his neck -- let it squeeze for just one moment -- as she passed. The very casualness of that touch was deceiving. It was an act of claiming as direct as any cattle brand. Thomas kept himself still, willed himself not to react, reminded himself that no matter how it appeared, he was not in control here.

A brief flare of light caught his eye as she flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette. As Thomas turned his head to look, Mrs. O'Brien slid her hand from his shoulder quickly down his chest to the inner thigh of his bent leg, pushed it to the side and straddled the bench so that she rested between his legs, pushed as close to him as her skirts would allow. This time when he met her gaze, the smirk was done with playing and rested full and triumphant on her lips, matched only by the dangerous gleam in her eyes. When she spoke, the roll of her brogue was nearly as physical a sensation as the hand still stroking his inner thigh where it sprawled over hers.

She said, "You didn't tell me you planned to approach the Duke about a position, Thomas."

Despite his best intentions to keep still, Thomas couldn't help the twitch of his thigh as he took in that statement. The embarrassment of the night before and the Duke's scorn still scalds hot against his pride. Mrs. O'Brien laughed low in her throat, took another drag off the cigarette before saying, "You didn't honestly believe I wouldn't find out, did you?"

As Mrs. O'Brien ran her fingers in idly swirling patterns around his thigh, her expression one of smug superiority, Thomas' breath caught in his throat, his mind racing to catch up, as usual. The Duke's letters. He'd had them safely tucked away in his room, hidden amongst his belongings. He'd told no one he'd kept them… no one but Mrs. O'Brien. He'd been too embarrassed last night to question it, how the Duke had known that Thomas had even _kept_ the letters, much less where they were. He was questioning, now. Eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, Thomas hissed out, " **You**. _You_ told him about the letters. _You_ told him where I kept them. _You_ distracted the other servants to give him a chance to go after them. It was all you… wasn't it?"

Mrs. O'Brien tipped her head up in a small salute and blew a ring of smoke right into Thomas' face. As he coughed and spluttered, she laughed, again, "No one leaves me before I'm through with them, Thomas. You'd do well to remember that in the future. _I'll_ be the one to decide when we're through."

With those last words, she flung the cigarette to the ground and, as Thomas was distracted by its falling arch, pushed him backwards onto the bench and shifted her hand to grip him through his pants. Once she had hold of him, any thought of protest flew clean out of his mind and he just tossed his head back and moaned. It really _had_ been too long and that business with the Duke had been the worst sort of tease on every level. He should have recognized it for what it was then -- would have done, if he'd known whose hand was behind it -- it was foreplay… and now it was time for the main course.

Mrs. O'Brien leaned over him, gripped his chin with her free hand and jerked his face towards hers. Even as the lingering smell of cigarette smoke drifted to his nose, so too did a deeper smell -- the smell of _her_. She always smelled like ginger to Thomas and so the smell of ginger never failed to arouse him. He moaned again as she stroked him through his pants, tried to turn his face in her grip to claim her lips. She merely laughed and kept her lips just out of reach, continued to work him with one hand as the other pinned him in place. It wasn't long before he started squirming beneath her on the bench, desperate for release on the one hand and mortified at the possibility of ejaculating in his uniform pants on the other.

This time she took pity on him, released him just before the point of no return, then as he lay there panting beneath her, leaned over and growled out, "Off with your pants, Thomas."

By now, it no longer even occurred to him that he could tell her "No." It simply wasn't worth the risk. With what she held over him, she could ruin him twenty times over -- she'd proven that rather adequately last night. But that was just a convenient excuse, really. The true reason why Thomas no longer considered telling her "No," was simply that he didn't want to. As demeaning, as humiliating, as embarrassing as their interludes could be when she was angry with him, the simple fact of the matter was that this was the best sex Thomas had ever had and he was in no hurry to give it up. He got out of his pants.

He'd barely had time to drop his pants to the ground when she was over him, one hand braced on his chest as she lifted her skirts out of the way and straddled him, settled herself down onto him with a bitten off curse. Thomas bit his lip, hands clenched into fists at his side to avoid touching her before she wished it. He'd learned early on that that was not welcome. She shifted, licked her lips, shifted again. Eventually she found a rhythm that she liked and rode him mercilessly to her own completion. She sat there for a moment, shivering with the aftershocks of her orgasm, before gently easing off of him and back to her former position beside him on the bench.

Thomas bit his lip, forced back a whimper as she pulled away. He needed… he needed… Jesus fucking Christ, he _needed_. He tossed his head on the bench, fought not to turn pleading eyes on her. She didn't need any more power over him than she had already. She didn't need to know how badly he needed her, how badly he _wanted_ her.

She made a soothing noise somewhere above him, stroked a hand down his side, across his thigh, to the juncture of his legs. He shifted his hips down, at this point desperate for contact -- _any_ contact that might give him some relief. She bypassed his member completely, shifted her land lower until she found his entrance. Thomas' eyes widened, his breath caught. In spite of his best intentions, he lifted his head, locked gazes with her and minutely shook his head. Not this. Not… not this. Before he could voice the denial, however, she began to press her index and middle fingers inside him, slowly, inexorably… and as inevitable as the tides.

Thomas tried to squirm away at first, uncomfortable and uncertain. He'd been with other men before. This was not the first time he'd experienced this sensation… but it somehow _felt_ as though it was. There was something different… something… He'd learned to enjoy it, of course, to fake it even when he hadn't, because men liked to feel they were accomplishing something beyond satisfying their own pleasures, but he'd never sought it out. He'd never wanted this from his own lovers, only accepted it from those he let use him so he could get what he wanted. But this… dear Lord in Heaven… _this_ …

After that initial adjustment, Mrs. O'Brien curled her fingers inside him until they pressed against something that set sparks of pleasure running through him in a way he'd never known. To his shame, Thomas cried out, pressed himself down onto her fingers. She laughed -- that deep, throaty laugh that she reserved for these moments -- gripped his chin in her free hand again and said, "Tell me, Thomas. Make me believe it."

Thomas whimpered, tried to press himself down on her fingers again, but she kept them tantalizingly just out of reach of that amazing spot she'd touched before. When that failed, he let her turn his head so that he was forced to meet her gaze and said, "I'll not try to leave you, again, Mrs. O'Brien… I'm yours until you're through with me."

She smiled then, like the cat who'd gotten not only the canary, but three mice and an entire bowl of cream to wash them all down. She leaned over him, pressed the weight of her body onto his as she stabbed her fingers into him again and again and _again_ , pulling back just before he could soil her dress with his release. As he took in great gulps of air and tried to regain some semblance of sense, she stood, skirts rustling and brushing against his oversensitized skin as she moved past him. She paused at his head to give him a pat, like one might a well-behaved dog -- a comparison that hit a little too close to home for Thomas to be entirely comfortable with it -- and said, "That's right, Thomas. We're a pair, you and I. We stick together. We work together. We support each other… and there is nothing we can't do."

As she walked away, leaving Thomas to put himself back together, he smiled, lit another cigarette and said to himself, "And _that_ , Mrs. O'Brien… is why I love you. Until next time, my lady." Because there would be a next time… and a next… and a next… until _she_ thought she'd grown tired of him. And on _that_ day, the game would truly begin.


End file.
